


Newlyweds

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Power Imbalance, Rimming, Switching, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We need a plausible, respectable cover that allows us to stay in the same room without anyone getting suspicious. This was the least bother.” And then, suddenly, his businesslike demeanour falls away and he flutters his eyelashes. “Why, don’t you <em>like</em> being my hubby, Moran?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Newlyweds

One of the difficulties of working for James Moriarty – one of many – is knowing when to ask and when to shut up. It’s always a bit of a risk, with a man who literally kills people for looking at him funny. A minefield – except sometimes your foot lands firmly on a mine and instead of the expected explosion there’s a shower of confetti and flowers.

Moriarty is a lot of things, but predictable ain’t one of them.

You rub your forehead, then glance at the Satnav. Nearing its destination, whatever that may be – secretive fucker had put in the address before you got in, and he hasn’t said a fucking word since.

Currently, the secretive fucker is looking outside, hand against his cheek. Daydreaming, maybe, except you’ve seen him react with snakelike speed when he seemed to be asleep or dozing too often to make that assumption. Moriarty, as far as you know, is always on high alert.

You clear your throat. He blinks and straightens up. 

“Five minutes till destination,” you say, pointedly.

He stretches. “Good, I’m getting cramped up.”

“Yeah. Erm…” You throw him a look, and when nothing else comes, you look back at the Satnav’s screen. “A hotel?”

“Yes,” he says absently, rubbing his eyes.

Nothing else. No why, no circumstances, no targets…

Well, fine. Practicalities first. “What name did you sign us in under?” you ask.

“Sebastian Walker and James Thomson.” He drops his hand and smiles at you. “Know ‘em?

You frown. “Doesn’t ring a bell, no.” 

“Both High Commissioners to India. Surprised you didn’t know that, what with your history.”

You shrug and take a left. “I don’t know all the Prime Ministers of Great Britain either.”

He clucks his tongue. “I really need to educate you, don’t I?”

Your stomach does an uncomfortable little flip.

Fuck him, seriously. He’s far too perceptive to not notice the effect he has on you, which means he’s doing it on purpose. But what the hell does he have to gain by getting you uncomfortable, apart from satisfaction for his sadistic urges?

‘Course, that might be more than enough motivation for the insane cunt.

You clear your throat. “So, er,  was wondering… Is there a plan, or…”

He grins. “You really hate going in blind, don’t you? Yes, don’t worry, there’s a plan. Which reminds me…” He sits up in his chair and reaches into his pocket. “Give me your hand.”

As far as odd requests go, it’s not nearly the weirdest so far. Still, when his warm fingers take your hand, nails grazing your palm, your mouth promptly goes dry.

You look back at the traffic, turn the wheel with one hand. “What’s going – ”

And then something cold slides around your finger.

A wedding ring. He’s put a wedding ring on you. “What – ”

“Traffic,” he snaps, and you swerve to avoid an oncoming truck, both hands on the wheel again, heart beating wildly in a way that’s not just the consequence of the near-miss.

The next street has a red light and you stop and turn to him. He’s put a ring on himself as well, studying it with a critical expression.

“Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” you say, rubbing your thumb against the ring. It fits perfectly, like everything he gets you, but it feels… constricting, maybe. You have to fight the urge to pull it off and chuck it out of the window.

He shrugs. “We need a plausible, respectable cover that allows us to stay in the same room without anyone getting suspicious. This was the least bother.” And then, suddenly, his businesslike demeanour falls away and he flutters his eyelashes at you. “Why, don’t you  _like_ being my hubby, Moran?”

“This is insane,” you say, shifting back into gear.

“Well, you did say  _in sickness and in health_.”

“Oh, we married for the Church, did we?” you say sarcastically. “Surprised you didn’t burst out in flames when you touched the holy water.”

“Keep that up and I’ll divorce you.”

“Did we write a pre-nup?”

“Course not, we were in love. Right here.”

You take a turn and drive up the driveway to a large, fancy hotel. “ _Were_?”

“Very much  _are_ , good point.” He stretches again. “I hope your acting skills are up to snuff, Moran.”

You glance at him. “Sorry?”

“From the second we leave this car,” he says, with obvious enjoyment, “you are going to be my besotted, love-struck, _affecionate_ husband.”

“And when you say  _affectionate_ …” you say slowly.

He slides his sunglasses on and grins. “I mean  _make them vomit with how lovey-dovey we are_. Come on,  _darling_.” He opens the door and gives you another smile. “Work to do.”

Before you can reply to that someone pops up at your side of the car – driver, right. You get out and hand the kid the keys, watch as another two boys take the bags from the boot of the car.

“Seb?”

You look up. Moriarty is waiting near the front of the hotel, which is disgustingly ostentatious, all marble and glass and towering up for at least twenty floors. You’d probably be more annoyed about it if you weren’t so busy with feeling nauseous.

You’ve fallen into the habit of staying as far as possible out of Moriarty’s personal space ever since you started working for him, for various reasons. And now he wants you to –what, exactly?

At any rate, newly-weds definitely don’t walk two paces behind each other. So you go over to him and, feeling extremely self-conscious, sling your arm around Moriarty’s waist. He reciprocates almost immediately – right move, then.

You breathe out. Christ, but this is weird.

He steers you towards reception, then gives you a small push in the small of your back. The young woman behind the desk looks up and smiles.

“Hi,” you say with a charming grin. “We booked a room – ”

“The  _suite,_ darling,” Moriarty says, in the plummiest accent he’s got. “Nothing but the best for us, that’s what I said, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you say, poshing up your accent as well. “You spoil me darling, you really do.”

His fingers dig in sharply just beneath your ribcage. “It’ll be under  _Thomson_ ,” he says, smiling helpfully at the receptionist.

“Right, here we are.” The girl smiles. “The honeymoon suite.”

Holy mother of fucking god.

“Can I have your passports, please?” she asks, smiling fondly at the both of you.

You put them on the counter – immaculate fakes, as always – and let her type away. “The suite’s at the top floor,” she says, multitasking. “Room service is available 24/7, just call 555. Breakfast is served from six til ten in the dining hall, on the tenth floor. Will you be dining in tonight? Our restaurant employs several awarded Chefs and serves a variety of dishes suitable for every possible diet.”

“So what do you think, sweetheart?” you ask. “Dinner?” 

You throw him an over-the-top besotted look, and his returning smile is fraying at the edges. Never mind instructions, never mind that this is his plan and you’ve got no choice but to obey him; he’s going to make you  _pay_ for this. 

“We also offer room service, if you prefer to keep it private,” the girl chimes in.

“That sounds perfect,” he says, still with the perfect fond enamoured smile, but his eyes are glinting. You swallow. “We really could use some alone time, can’t we, love?” He turns to the receptionist. “But can we make a reservation for tomorrow evening?”

“Of course. What time can I put you down for?”

“Eightish. Could we have a room near the window? We do enjoy our view.”

“Of course.” She hands the passports back, her smile making the skin at the corner of her eyes crinkle. “Your keys. Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Please enjoy your stay, and don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything we can help you with.”

“Thank you,” Moriarty says, charmingly. He takes the keys and tugs you along, arm still around your waist.

It’s seriously weird. Not just the play-acting, it’s… He’s  _near_ , he’s  _holding you_ , he’s smiling and teasing and even though it’s all just a performance you honestly can’t help the way you’re reacting to all of this.

Come on. You can stay professional, can’t you? Even when you are professionally obliged to fondle your extremely fanciable boss in public, and he’s fondling you right back – shit, you’re not going to fucking survive this.

“Do we need to keep it up in the lift?” you ask from the corner of your mouth, still keeping your infatuated smile plastered on your face.

He gives a miniscule nod.

The lift opens as you approach. Your stomach is doing somersaults ‘cause you’ve already got it sorted out, know what to do, and you’re breaking out in cold sweat just thinking about it.

You step inside and the lift closes behind you. Privacy, and the kind of person you’re playing would take advantage of that.

He leans back against the chrome bar in front of the lift’s mirror. You put your hand next to his, trying to gather your courage.

Christ, not even as a teenager were you ever this nervous.

You reach out with your free hand. He’s watching you carefully, and you’re moving slowly enough that he can break off your movement if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

You tip his chin up and lean in close, breathing in a mixture of aftershave and soap, the scent of his hair. “How dangerous are the people watching us?” you murmur against his jaw.

His hand goes to your neck, fingers playing with your hair. “Potentially extremely dangerous,” he whispers. “If they suspect us to be anything but a loving couple we’re in trouble.”

“Got it.” You tilt your head, your nose almost touching the skin beneath his ear. “What about the room?”

He squeezes your neck. “Going to do a sweep. I’ll let you know. Keep up the game until I give you permission to drop it, got that?”

“Naturally.”

The lift pings. You break off. For a second you feel oddly dizzy, but then Moriarty gives you a sharp look and that’s enough to bring you down to earth again.

You step out, taking his hand and entangling your fingers with his. “Which room, darling?”

“At the end.”

You go down the hallway, Moriarty’s hand in yours. Your footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet, and there are about a dozen other doors on each side. Impossible to know how many of those are occupied, though; could be no one here, or over twenty people. The cameras are a certainty, though, placed every few yards, covering the whole place and not leaving any dead corners. And the door labelled _honeymoon suite_ is all the way at the back of the hallway, closed in on all sides. It's giving you the creeps, being locked in on all sides like that.

“There we are.” Moriarty swipes the card across the lock. He turns, winks at you, and goes in.

You take a deep breath and follow him inside.

It definitely deserves the name _suite_ , horribly over the top as it is, with all the carved plaster decorations and the fucking swooning sofas. It’s big too, unusually spacious for a hotel room, even an expensive one.

Moriarty gives it all one disdainful look, then disappears down the bathroom. You wander over to the bed – which is, predictably, huge – and sit down.

How the  _hell_ are you going to survive this? You’re already feeling light-headed after only a few minutes being all cuddly, so several days’ worth of this… 

“All clear,” Moriarty calls out. “Only a camera, no sound.”

You sag in relief. “Good. At least we can talk freely if they’re - ” And then a horrifying thought hits you.

“If they’re what?” Moriarty asks.

You open your mouth, but don’t manage to make a sound, too caught in the images. 

Moriarty leans in the doorway of the bathroom. “Judging by the traumatised look on your face,” he says lazily, “I’m thinking you just realised what this means concerning our night-time activities?”

You stare at him, fairly sure you’re blushing.

But he can’t seriously expect you to have  _sex with him for the sake of a cover?_

Moriarty smirks and saunters over. “Would the prospect be so horrifying, Moran?”

He stops right in front of you, within touching distance. You stare up at him. Like a fucking deer in the headlights, you couldn’t even move now if you wanted to.

He glances down at your crotch. “Or maybe not, hm?” 

“You…” you start, not entirely sure what to say.

He swings his leg up and straddles your lap, hands on your shoulders. His sudden weight comes as a shock, and you take his waist automatically only to realise a second later that you are, as of now, cuddling Moriarty while he’s inches away from your cock.

It’s a miracle you don’t get a fucking heart attack on the spot.

He leans in close. “I’m going to try and rewire the cameras,” he whispers, his mouth a hair breadth’s from yours. You can feel his warm breath on your face, smell peppermint and cigarettes. “If I can set up a replacement image we should be good.”

“And if you don’t?” you croak.

“Then, Moran…” He tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls, hard. “You’ll just have to make sweet married love to me.”

You make a tiny high-pitched noise.

“That’s the spirit.” He gives you a quick peck on the lips, then hops off your lap. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he says casually, then disappears to the bathroom again.

You slowly lick your lips, eyes fixed on the bathroom door.

***

He does, eventually, manage to rewire the cameras, to your immense and overwhelming relief.

“Thank fuck,” you breathe, sprawling in one of the chairs.

“That terrified of fucking me?” Moriarty asks casually, jacket off and sleeves rolled up and feet propped up in front of him.

“Yes.”

He smiles his devil’s grin. “Clever boy. Anyway, we should talk strategy.”

“Finally.” You hook your foot behind the wheel of the room service cart and pull it to you.

“Don’t get cocky, husband mine,” Moriarty says. It sounds smooth enough, but you don’t need to be a genius to hear the threat behind it. “The targets’ pictures are in the pocket of my jacket - no, other side. Those. Go for a swim tomorrow morning, see if you can spot them. Try to interact if you can, but don’t push it.”

“Got it.” You put the pictures back and pour yourself a drink. “So, what is this? Assassination? Robbery?”

“Neither.” He yawns. “I just need to see them, that’ll be enough.”

“Right,” you say, dubiously.

“Right,” he echoes, mocking. He rubs his eyes. “I’m going to bed. Long drives always tire me out.”

“Er, about that…” You eye the bed. It’s bloody massive, but it’s still very much the only bed in the room. “I could sleep on the sofa?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’d have to fold double to fit in that,” he says irritably. “And I need you on top form.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt and heads to the bathroom. “Stay on your side of the bed and we’ll be fine.”

“Sure,” you say carefully.

He closes the door behind him.

You lean your head back and let out a long breath.

It’s fine. You can do this. It’s not like you haven’t been in close proximity to him before. There have been stake-outs of all sorts, meetings, long car drives…

But none of those lasted longer than a few hours, tops. And you weren’t fucking _asleep_ then. Call it primal, instinctual, but sleeping means you’re vulnerable and the thought of letting Moriarty close to that…

No. Wait. That isn’t the issue. You actually have very little problems with being vulnerable around Moriarty – sure, it ain’t fun, but you’re fucking used to it. But the reverse, the idea of Moriarty being vulnerable around _you_?

That’s fucking terrifying.

“Well?”

You jolt and look up. Moriarty has come out again, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He’s in better shape than you expected, muscle not exactly defined but still there. A bit of pudge at his stomach, hipbones clearly visible, a small scar on his thigh, and…

You wrench your eyes away.

You were not prepared for this.

“Stop ogling,” he says, irritated. “And get cleaned up, I’m not sleeping with someone who stinks of rental car and sweat.”

“Right. Erm. Yeah.”

“ _Bathroom_ , Moran,” he says, pointedly.

You flee, quickly closing the door behind you, then strip off as quickly as you can, get in the shower, and turn the water ice-cold.

It helps, but only a little.

Christ, this thing would be difficult enough on its own without your fucking libido joining in to fuck things up even more.

He knows, though. Of course he knows. Sometimes it seems to irritate him, sometimes it’s apparently amusing, but he’s never treated your little infatuation with anything else than detachment.

Still. At least he won’t castrate you for fancying him, will he? If he really minded that much he would have let you know long before now.

You turn the water off, find a towel. Usually you sleep naked but that’s obviously not an option tonight. And you doubt Moriarty packed pyjamas for you.

You pull your boxers back on and, after a deep breath, open the door. The lights are already off and Moriarty is an indistinct shape at the right edge of the bed, mostly covered by the sheets.

It takes a moment or two before your night vision fully kicks in and the room becomes more than a dark blurry blob. Then you pad carefully towards the bed and crawl underneath the sheets. Moriarty doesn’t react. You turn onto your side.

You can hear his breathing. Slow, steady. Would he snore? Do you snore? What are the chances you’re going to wake up to a knife on your throat because you kept him awake?

He moves. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to shut down your imagination. No, you don’t need to think about how close he is, how you’d just need to extend a hand to feel him there. And no, you don’t need to imagine what he looks like either, as good as naked, eyes closed, relaxed…

Fucking fuck. You’re not going to get any sleep tonight at all.

***

It’s warm. Comfortable. You snuggle deeper.

A groan. Someone else. Did you pull last night? Either way, they smell nice, and fit rather nicely against your -

 _ohfuck_.

In your arms, Moriarty moans again and wriggles even closer against you.

You’re… spooning. There’s no other word for it. Even though you started the night so far on the side of the bed you were in constant danger of falling off, right now you’re bang in the middle, and Moriarty is in your arms, and he’s pressed against you, shoulders to chest, back to stomach, and  _holy shit_ your cock really has the worst sense of timing.

You try to extricate your arm. Moriarty whimpers and smacks. You stop moving.

He’s going to murderyou.

He wriggles and makes a quiet sound, then yawns. Then freezes.

Scrap that: he’s going to make you wishhe murdered you.

You very slowly pull your arm back. This time he doesn’t protest. Unfortunately, there is nothing you can do to disguise your hard-on still nestled comfortably against his arse.

He doesn’t move for a few seconds. His breathing is slow but you can see his pulse at his neck, and it’s racing. 

Then he gets out of bed and goes straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

You roll onto your back and cover your eyes with your hands.

Jesus  _fuck._

It’s nothing. Instinct. A dream, making him imagine someone else in his bed – but who? Does Moriarty even have a type? Does he _wank_? Does he –

No, very much wrong line of thinking, that.

You sit up and rub your face. Whatever the reason that you ended up cuddling like a love-struck couple, it obviously disturbed him too. Which makes this the first time you’ve ever seen him react to anything with something other than perfect cool detachment. But why?

Vulnerability.

You get out of bed and pull on some clothes. In the bathroom, the shower has started running. So he’s in there, naked –

Once again you have to wrench your thoughts away from a potentially disastrous path. You eye the door. Time for some - strategic retreat. Panicked fleeing. Whatever you want to call it, but it just comes down to the fact that you do _not_ want to face your boss anywhere in the foreseeable future.

And he did give you a job to do. There’s a _reason_ why you’re here, it isn’t just random torture-Sebastian time.

“Going out!” you yell in the general direction of the bathroom. There’s no reply, but no way in hell are you going to knock now. And, well, those were his orders. He can’t complain about you following them now.

You go to your bag and root around until you find a pair of speedos, then grab the keycard and head out.

It’s still rather early, and you only come across two or three other guests while you head for the downstairs pool. Hopefully your targets are early risers too, otherwise you’ll just have to swim lap after lap, waiting for them to show up.

Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad. It’s not like you don’t have any excess energy to work off.

The smell of chlorine hits your nose as you push the door open.

The pool is still empty apart from you and a two young women, sitting closely together and whispering to each other in something that sounds like French. You eye them idly – they’re quite attractive, both of them, and the scar on the taller one’s leg makes her interesting to you in a way more ordinary-looking women aren’t – but the short one sends you the kind of look that implies very clearly those two are not for your consumption. Shame.

You dive in, then start doing lanes. For a few moments it’s nice to just focus on that, rather than the job, or the – the whatever the fuck is happening with your boss. This is easier, just muscle working and burning and the monotonous repetition you’re so used to, from the army, from school.

After a lap or ten the door opens and another man comes in. You watch him surreptitiously as he showers – yep, that’s him, the guy on Moriarty’s pictures.

Right. Work.

You swim over to the side and push up, smile. “Hi.”

***

“All right,” you say when you come into the hotel room again. “Interesting information. They’ve stayed here before and they’re planning to use it for a conference sometime soon – Are you listening?”

“I am,” Moriarty’s voice comes from the bathroom. “Keep going.”

“’Kay. So, er, conference…” You stroll to the window, out of habit. “They’re definitely dodgy, but not obviously so. I dropped a few hints about being the sort of person with a lot of free-floating capital and influential friends and he was immediately interested, but not enough to get me in on the conference. Tried to play it off as something boring. I almost lost him over the gay thing, but I managed to draw him back in with a bit of title dropping.”

Funny, really, the effect a peerage can have on some people.

“Anything on his partner?” Moriarty asks.

“Not really.” You glance outside, check the cars. Nothing suspicious. “He mentioned there was someone else staying here he knew, but I couldn’t get into that any further without him getting suspicious. Oh, and I nicked his wallet.”

“You _what_?” Moriarty appears in the doorway of the bathroom.

And you need a moment.

You’ve seen him casual like this before – shirtsleeves pushed up, barefoot, hair ungelled – but it’s…

Oh, who are you trying to fool. Even back in London that sight affected you. And now, with the memory of his scent still fresh in your mind, the feel of his body against you and the sleepy noises he made and the knowledge what he looks like underneath all those layers…

“ _Moran_.” Moriarty snaps his fingers. “Back to earth. You _took his wallet_?”

“I put it back, relax,” you says, irritated. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“On a scale of one to ten or comparatively speaking?” He steps into the room, hands in his pockets, eyes focused on you in a way that’s really not helping with your nerves. “So, what did you do?” he asks, with a mocking undertone. “Took copies and stuffed them in your tiny swim trunks, did you?”

“Need I remind you it was _you_ who packed my clothes? And no, I got them all in here.” You tap your head.

“Then get writing before you lose them again.”

You roll your eyes and go to the desk, pull up some paper. “Credit cards, most of them,” you say as you start writing down the numbers. “Passport, driving licence, a few business cards…”

“You remembered all of those?”

“Course I did.” You glance over your shoulder and add, somewhat sardonically, “You trained me on this, remember?”

“And those lessons really made their way through your thick skull?” Moriarty widens his eyes in faked surprise. “Who’d’ve thought.”

“Fuck off.” You turn back to your notes. “There was one other thing too. Like a business card, but no names, just a number and a symbol.”

“A symbol?” he asks, suddenly losing the mocking tone. “What kind of symbol?”

“Hang on.” You jot down the last number, then start sketching. “There, something like thi-”

And suddenly Moriarty is standing right behind you, leaning on your shoulder as he bends down to look at the paper.

Your breath hitches.

He isn’t even that close, just his hand on your shoulder, his side next to your arm, but there’s still something perversely intimate about the gesture that really  _really_ isn’t - 

Moriarty hums. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Trouble?” you say, somehow managing to keep your voice neutral.

“Possibly. We might be in deeper here than I thought, which means…” He pushes off again, leaves your personal space.

You can breathe again.

“Which means?” you ask.

“That I need to re-evaluate, that’s all,” he says absently.

“And will that take a lot of time?” you ask. “It’s just that we should probably make an effort to leave the room at some point today, for the sake of the cover.”

“Hm?” Moriarty looks up, an abstracted look in his eyes.

“They’re hardly going to believe we spend our entire day inside.”

“Why not?” He grins. “We’re newlyweds.”

“Really?” you say, one eyebrow raised. “So should I bang the wall for a bit and make moaning noises?”

“If you feel like it would relieve the pressure, be my guest.” He gestures grandly at the wall and the bed. “Go on. Treat me to your best orgasmic yells.”

“Oh, I’m yelling, am I?” you say sharply. “You’re that good, then?”

His smile gets a nasty edge to it. “I’m the best fuck you’ve ever had, _darling_.”

“Or you have a fragile ego and I’m still committed enough to fake my way through it.”

“I’d like to think I’d be able to spot a fake.”

“How would  _you_ know?”

His expression freezes, and for a moment there’s something incredibly fucking threatening about him.

Maybe you made a mistake here. Sure, he doesn’t mind that you talk back, but the situation now is radically different than usual. You’ve never been quite this close to him, for this long, and it’s entirely possible that his usually relatively relaxed attitude towards you is starting to wane…

Minefields again.

But then he relaxes and shakes his head. “Because, as I’ve pointed out before, you’re really not as good an actor as you seem to think you are. Now stop begging for attention and make yourself scarce, I need to think.”

And he turns his back to you, to all intents and purposes as if you’ve just turned invisible. You close your eyes, count to ten, then go to the bags to clean your gun.

***

Lunch comes in the form of room service, something fancy and expensive that’s nevertheless actually quite good, contrary to your own experiences with hotel food. Not that Moriarty seems to appreciate it. He just downs the food while still poring over his papers, without even seeming to notice what it is he’s putting in his mouth.

He’s barely said a word the entire morning, doing nothing but either typing furiously on his laptop or writing pages and pages full of coded nonsense. But at least that beats staring into space for hours on end.

The man doesn’t blink nearly fucking enough.

Meanwhile you are bored out of your mind. There’s only so much gun maintenance you can do, and the hotel room offers very little in terms of entertainment.

“Stop it,” Moriarty snaps suddenly.

You whirl. “Stop what?”

“Pacing like a caged goddamn panther. Just go out, if staying in bothers you that much.”

“Oh, I’m allowed, am I?”

“Yes,” he says, irritated. “Just don’t stay away too long. And don’t leave the actual hotel.”

“Yessir,” you say, with an ironic salute, then leave the room before he changes his mind. There’s a whole hotel to explore, after all.

Not that there’s that much. The layout of the hotel is fairly simple, five big hallways on each floor, all coming out on the central circular hallway. There’s a skylight all the way at the top, bringing in the light down the central shaft. It’s one hell of a drop, and you spend a moment leaning on the banister, gauging the distance down. It’s a good thing you don’t get vertigo.

Apart from the rooms there’s the restaurant, closed during the day, another restaurant-slash-bar where people seem to go for lunch, and an actual proper bar on the top floor, not far away from the suite.

You give in to temptation and order a good stiff drink, then take the opportunity to study some of the other guests. High-class tourists, a few businessmen, nothing out of the ordinary. The French lesbians are there too, once again whispering, although this time it’s interspersed with giggles. You raise your glass at them, and the dark-haired one responds with something that could very easily be interpreted as a flirtatious look.

You shake your head with a polite smile. They both pull disappointed faces, then turn to each other again, once more giggling.

The things you do for Moriarty – or don’t do, to be precise. Should you mention that you passed up on the opportunity of a threesome all just to keep his stupid cover? Or would that just piss him off more?

You leave the bar alone and go exploring further. Staff rooms on the ground floor, behind the reception desk, an outdoor swimming pool and another one on the fifth floor…

And of course a huge gym.

The swim was really too short to give any proper relief. But this… This would work. Nothing like pumping weights to siphon off some of this damn tension. And it fits the cover too.

You _would_ work out to look fit and hot for your newfound hubby.

You shake your head, then go in and head for the weights.

***

People look when you cross the hallway. Two women stop speaking mid-sentence. A passing bellhop gives you a shy smile and a flutter of his eyelashes.

Fuck knows why, as sweaty and red-faced as you are from all that work you’re hardly a very appetizing sight, right?

You head up the stairs to the top floor. The hallway there is once again empty. Would the rooms be too? It would be true to form for Moriarty to just book all the rooms, all to have a little privacy.

And speaking of… You knock once, just to be on the safe side, and when no reply comes you unlock the door.

No one in.

You strip your shirt off and head straight for the bathroom, bypassing the heaps of papers and electronic devices that have popped up while you were out.

The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the suite, something that barely registered yesterday, panicked as you were. Now it does, though: the huge shower, the massive marble tub sunk into the floor…

And Moriarty’s toiletries standing in a neat row on the shelf below the mirror.

You go over and open a bottle at random, sniff it. It’s odd – it’s definitely a scent you recognise, and one you immediately associate with him too, but there’s still something missing.

You put the bottle back – sniffing another guy’s shaving cream is not a habit you want to indulge in – and get into the shower. The hot water feels like bliss on your overworked muscles, especially once you work out what all the different knobs and dials do and find the massage jets. You tilt your head back, close your eyes, relax into it…

“So did you – ”

“Holy _shit – ”_

You almost slip, only just manage to stay upright by doing a very undignified grab for the shower rails. You pull yourself up and glare at Moriarty, who –

\- who’s doubled over with laughter.

“You startled me, alright?” you say, annoyed.

“I saw that.” He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “Such grace, such strength. Elite soldier, are you?”

“Fuck off.” You turn off the water and angrily grab a towel to wrap around your waist. “So, what was so urgent you couldn’t fucking wait until I had my fucking clothes on?”

“You do remember this is roleplay, don’t you?” Moriarty drawls. “Because you’re sounding more and more like a nagging wife.”

“Oh, trust me,” you say darkly, “I don’t forget for a second that this isn’t real.”

Moriarty gives you a very odd look. You turn your face away, reach for the chair where you left your clothes and – which is now empty.

“They’re on the bed,” Moriarty says calmly.

“Why?”

“Dinner tonight. I can’t have you wearing just anything.”

You straighten up, square your jaw. Moriarty pointedly doesn’t move out the way and you have to brush past him, still wearing nothing but a towel that suddenly feels laughably small.

The clothes are in a neat heap on the bed, underwear included. You give Moriarty a look. “Can you give me a bit of privacy?”

“No,” Moriarty says, with obvious amusement. He leans back against the wall, hands in his pockets, with every appearance of _enjoying the show_.

You glare at him. “Are you getting off on this or something?”

Moriarty simply raises his eyebrows.

“Fine. You know what? Fine.” You drop the towel, throw your arms wide. “There. Satisfied?”

The little fucker has the gall to twirl his finger.

You do a little turn. “Anything else?” you ask, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Bend over? Spread ‘em? Or do you want to take pictures, so you can wank over them later? Anything to –  to please…” You trail off.

He doesn’t say anything. But that sense of amusement has entirely disappeared. And he just keeps staring at you, like that…

And suddenly you feel very much out of your depth.

“I take it back,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head. “Think that’s enough, do you?”

So what, should you fall to your knees and grovel, beg for his forgiveness? Is that what he wants? But not even – not even James fucking Moriarty can make you beg.

So you turn and bend over to take the clothes, as you were told to do.

And thus, are completely unprepared for Moriarty shoving you hard in the back.

You land face-down on the bed and manage to roll around, but before you can get up Moriarty is on you, straddling your waist and capturing your wrists in one hand.

You go limp.

“There,” he says, calmly. “That got your attention.”

You nod.

“So let’s get this straight.” He tightens his grip on your wrists, to the point of pain.  “This? Means _nothing_. You’re not as irresistible as you think you are. Stop thinking with your dick for once, Moran.”

“Or maybe you should start thinking with your dick.”

Did you really just say that? Maybe you just thought it and he –

Nope. You definitely said that.

Oh well. You gotta die some way.

“Sorry?” he says, coldly, eyes still fixed on you.

You swallow. “I didn’t mean – ”

And he elbows you right in the solar plexus.

You fold double, wheezing, and Moriarty gets off you. “Be grateful we’re undercover,” he says as he straightens his cuffs. “Or it would’ve been your face.”

“Got it,” you rasp.

“Good boy.” He looks down at you. “And?”

“Er…” You cough. “Sorry?”

Moriarty makes an odd irritated hissing sound, then turns on his heel and plonks himself down at the desk at the other side of the room. You watch for a few moments, but nothing else happens.

Thank fuck the suite is huge. If this had happened at a Holiday Inn you would have probably ended up murdering each other before breakfast.

You put on the clothes, then go to the mirror to check out the effect. Credit where credit’s due, the suit fits perfectly. It’s a little tighter than you’re used to, but then again this one doesn’t need to have a gun hidden underneath it.

You turn, try to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. You’re so used to trying to exude threat and danger that the opposite feels – off. Strange. Maybe you aren’t a good enough actor to pull this off.

And looking harmless is only one part of it.

You catch Moriarty staring at you in the mirror, a strangely abstracted look on his face.

“Think it works,” you say carefully, alert to every reaction, no matter how small. “Sebastian Walker obviously has a very good tailor.”

“Sebastian Walker is a vain bastard with too much money,” Moriarty says, still looking a little distracted. “You need to change the way you move.”

“Sorry?”

“Your body language. The army parade rest is fine, but the rest isn’t.” He waves his hand at you. “Stop looking like you’re a second away from tearing out someone’s throat. _Relax_.”

“Oddly enough, I’m not in a very relaxed mood right now.”

“Then do something about it,” he says, irritated. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

“Think there’s a yoga class at six,” you say ironically. “Or have you booked me a spa treatment?”

He sighs and gets up. You take a step back automatically, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Easy, boy.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the mirror. “Relaxed,” you murmur, keeping one eye on Moriarty behind you. “Contented.”

“Lazy, even.” He stops just behind you and studies your reflection with a critical expression. “You keep your shoulders too far back.” And he grabs your shoulder and digs his fingers into the muscle. You hiss between your teeth, then try to do as you’re told.

It’s strange. Standing up straight is something that’s been drilled into you since childhood. Slouching feels – wrong.

But if that’s what Moriarty wants…

“Now shift your weight, onto one leg.”

You shuffle awkwardly. Moriarty clucks his tongue and puts his hand on your hip. You close your eyes and count quietly to five.

Then you say, “Is this necessary?”

“Apparently it is.” He gives you hip a little shove. “Weight at the left, not in the middle. Try to – the-ere we go. Good. Better. Arms loose.”

You quickly let your arms hang before he can grab your hand. “Like that?”

“Roughly. Now…” He reaches up and takes your chin, tilts your head so you’re watching your own reflection. “Look at that. See? That’s what we need. Now concentrate, you’re already starting to tense up again.”

“Sorry.” You shift your weight again, stretch your arms back in an attempt to relax your shoulders. “Think I’m starting to get it.”

“You still have around three hours to practice,” he says. “Make sure you can pull it off perfectly, we don’t need anyone getting suspicious of your background.” And he goes back to his desk.

You sit down in one of the chairs and watch as Moriarty rifles through a pile of papers.

It might be your imagination, but he seem a little different, less playful, more serious. And that started when you showed him the symbol you’d found in the mark’s wallet, now you think of it. He hadn’t explained what that meant, but it was definitely something big.

“Anything you want to share?” you ask carefully.

For a moment nothing comes. You roll your eyes, prepare for another few hours of making yourself small and unnoticeable while Moriarty does whatever it is he does, but then he speaks up.

“They’re government.”

“They don’t look like government,” you says, surprised.

He gives you a look. “You’re an expert, are you?”

“I am, actually. I grew up surrounded by that lot, and they’re… Oh.”

He raises an eyebrow, once again amused. “What?”

“Just… remembered.” You look at him. “That the official guys usually had one or two discreet unnoticeable men hanging around in the background. Is that what they are?”

“Something like it,” he says, with half a smile.

“But the guy I spoke to – ”

“Call ‘em the liasons. You won’t find them on the official payroll, obviously. They’re just the connection, the plausible deniability, the people ironing out the problems and ensuring this whole operation can run smoothly.”

“Operation?”

He leans back and runs his hand over his face. “A conspiracy. Several men in important positions, from all across the world, connected to achieve some very specific goals. It’s the first time I’ve actually come this close to actual members, usually I just catch the slipstream.”

It’s an odd thought, that. You’ve always considered him to be this all-knowing all-powerful inhuman being, and the idea that there are other people out there who are supposedly more powerful than him…

“They’re not you, though,” you say decidedly.

Moriarty looks up, almost as if in surprise. Then he grins. “No. No, they’re not me.”

“Do they know you exist?” you ask.

“Probably not. They might have picked up a rumour or two, but I know to be discreet around them. For now, at least.” He looks outside, a faraway look on his face. “I thought this was just going to be a fairly low-grade corruption deal. Not this.”

“So we abort?”

“No,” he says thoughtfully. “No, this is an opportunity. I just need to be extra alert.” He straightens up. “And that, Moran, is why I need you to be on top form.”

“Got it. I’m just…” You run your hand over your face. “I’m just not entirely sure if I can pull this off.”

“Why not?” he asks, frowning. “You’ve done things like this plenty of times before.”

“Well, yes, but never together with you.”

That’s… probably a bit too honest, and once again Moriarty _looks_ at you, in that weird too focused way he has.

Then he shrugs. “Just play posh, and follow my lead. Easy peasy.” And he returns to his papers.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, eyes on his hands as he writes. “Easy.”

***

Eight o’clock comes far too soon.

You’ve mastered the relaxed stand, the lazy sprawl and even the casual stroll, all under Moriarty’s careful tutelage, but you haven’t exactly practiced the affectionate-husband part of this role – thank Christ, now you think of it. It would be absolutely true to character for Moriarty to make you practice handholding or kissing in the privacy of the suite, just to make sure it looks _authentic_.

Or, well, maybe he wouldn’t. He did scarper when he woke up in your arms, after all.

“Ready?” Moriarty asks.

“Think so. Anything in particular I need to pay attention to?”

“Try not to be too obvious when you’re casing the surroundings. And don’t forget the physical affection, of course.”

He says it lightly, almost teasing, but there’s something about that just – that doesn’t feel right.

“Come on, then.” He snaps his fingers and grins. “Heel.”

“Husband, not dog,” you say as you got over to his side. “There’s a difference, in case you didn’t know. I’m wearing a ring, not a collar.”

“Maybe next time,” he says, and before you can process that he opens the door.

Your curl your fingers into a fist, try to gain control. Your heartrate has sped up, and the floor feels unsteady underneath your feet.

Damn him.

Moriarty ushers you out to the hallway, then follows and closes the door. No one out and about, but obviously the cameras are still watching. He locks up, then turns and casually slings his arm around your waist.

Deep breath. It’s fine. You can do this.

You put your arm across his shoulders, hand at the back of his neck. You can feel the tension there, and almost automatically your thumb starts stroking at the stiff tendons. Moriarty’s step actually falters for a fraction of a second. Just really committed playacting? Or is even the infallible Moriarty not as unaffected by all this as you assumed him to be?

You go the lift and get inside. As soon as the doors close, Moriarty turns to you, hands on your waist. He’s so damn close you can feel his body heat, and then he goes on tiptoe and leans close to your ear. “Relax,” he breathes.

Easier said than fucking done.

The lift pings. Moriarty lets go of you, grabbing your hand instead. His palm feels very warm against yours. Two other people step inside the lift and give the two of you a slightly surprised look. You smile at them, a little strained.

Moriarty squeezes your hand.

The lift goes straight to the tenth floor after that. The two others step outside and Moriarty pulls you along to follow them. For one blessed second he lets go of your hand, breaking all contact, but then he throws his arm around your waist again.

“Isn’t this a bit over the top?” you ask from the corner of your mouth, still smiling pleasantly.

Moriarty’s only answer is to run his fingernails lightly over your side. You shiver.

The maître d’ flutters in the moment you approach. “Did you make a reservation?” he asks, with a stilted smile. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked for – ”

“Honeymoon suite,” Moriarty says smoothly. “Name of Thompson.”

“Ah, of course.” The man’s smile becomes a little more genuine. “This way, please.”

He leads you to a table near the window, which aside from offering a spectacular view of the city below also gives you quite the view on the other patrons - including the man from his morning and his colleague, sitting only two tables away. 

Moriarty lets go of your waist. The maître d’, after a moment of painful indecision, pulls out the chair for Moriarty and leaves you to sit down on you own. You smirk at Moriarty, who grins straight back, not even remotely bothered that he’s being treated as the woman in the relationship.

The maître d’ scuttles off. Moriarty looks around the room, then focuses on you again. His foot hooks around yours, the tip of his shoe stroking your ankle, which is a bit…

But it’s a hell of a lot better than handholding.

All right. This can work. Can’t it?

“Champagne, darling?” Moriarty asks, with a fond smile.

And despite the fact that you know, _know_ it’s all just a fake, still your stomach gives a little flip.

“Sounds great,” you say, mentally cursing yourself. Moriarty smiles again and turns to flag the waiter.

It’s okay, you can do this. You just need to – need to focus, that’s all. Play posh and follow his lead, like he said. Easy-peasy.

He turns back and touches your hand. “Appetisers?”

 _Focus_.

***

Moriarty was right; this really is an excellent cover. All during dinner he observes, taking in all details on the two men sitting just within your field in vision – and neither of them notices, because they’re too busy trying their best to ignore all the gay affection going on behind them.

And there is a _lot_ of gay affection going on.

Turns out that Moriarty playing footsie isn’t that much better than handholding, especially ‘cause he’s surprisingly flexible – who’d’ve thought his foot can reach all the way up to your thigh?

But it’s - if it had been just that, then, well, maybe, even if almost three hours of him sexing up your leg would be pushing it. But the combination with him feeding you bits from his plate, and all the stray hand touches whenever he can get away with it and that one time he goes to the bathroom and leaves the table with a peck on your cheek –

But you manage, that’s the point. Sure, you may look a little flushed and flustered but honestly, that kind of fits the character. You do fine.

That is, until dessert arrives.

Maybe it’s just erosion, the build-up from all that casual flirting finally breaking the dam. Maybe it’s the way he’s licking chocolate from his spoon, quick catlike darts of his pink tongue before he slips it between his lips and sucks, or maybe it’s his hand which has – under the cover of the tablecloth - strayed high up your thigh, and then he slowly puts his spoon down and turns to you and leans in a little and you –

You panic.

“Excuse me,” you choke out, then stand up and walk as quickly as you dare through the restaurant, past all the tables and the staring patrons and then straight to the gents.

Luckily, there’s no one else there. You crash into the sink, lean your hands on it, then run the tap and splash cold water on your face. It doesn't do much.

It isn’t working. You aren’t a good enough actor, you can’t just shake this off, you can’t pretend like this is affecting you in the way it’s supposed to, because you should be mellow and relaxed and contented but right now all you can think of is how much you want to drag him across that table and –

 _Jesus_.

You lean down and splash some more cold water onto your face.

You _can_ do this. You can make it through dinner, go back with him and –

And what? Share a bed with him again, after what happened last night? Hear him in the bathroom with nothing but a door between you and him? And what about tomorrow, dinner then, or other occasions where you have to walk around at his side with him touching you constantly –

“What the hell was that?”

You look up, wildly.

Moriarty carefully closes the door behind him and reaches down to fiddle with the lock.

Then he turns.

“What part of inconspicuous don’t you understand?” he says, irritated. “The entire damn restaurant was staring at you while you made your dra- ”

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out.

He stops talking and tilts his head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t, I just, I can’t do this, can’t keep – ” You break off, take a deep breath. “Change the cover story. Make us break up. Bring in an emergency. Just, please, don’t make me go through with this because I can’t – ”

“Why not?” he asks, sounding perfectly serious.

You tear your eyes away from his face, look down at the sink. You’re panting.

“Moran.”

Footsteps come closer.

“Why can’t you do this?”

Your hands are shaking. You glance up again. Moriarty is standing next to you, a strange half-smile on his face, and as you’re looking he puts his hand on your back.

“You look like you’ve just suffered through a heart attack,” he says softly. “That much, then?”

You blink at him, confused. “What?”

He grabs your shirt and twists you around, pressing you back against the sink. Once again he’s so close that you can feel his body heat, but this time there are no people watching, this time he’s free to do as he likes.

This time, there are no excuses.

You stare at him.

He stares back, as focused and dangerous and unreadable as ever.

And then he kisses you.

The sheer shock of it makes it not register at first. You can see what’s happening, and a decade or two of experience makes you open your mouth, run your tongue over his lip, but it might as well be happening to a stranger because that’s – that’s Moriarty.

Kissing you.

 _Moriarty_. Kissing _you_.

And then suddenly it does register and you grab his face, his waist, pull him closer and kiss back with a fervour that’s probably going to leave marks that don’t really fit the cover and you’ll get hell for that, but _Christ_ , how the hell are you supposed to keep a clear head around _him_?

He bites your lip hard, then pulls off. You stare at him, panting, and if it wasn’t for a slight wetness around his mouth you would’ve believed you’d been dreaming, because it’s – it’s…

“Now,” he says, conversationally, but there’s a breathlessness there you’ve never heard before. “We’re going to back, me all solicitous and you slightly weak-kneed – look, you’ve already got that going, well done – because you had an attack of nausea. And we’re going to finish the damn food.”

“And then?” you manage to ask, mouth dry.

He grins, winks, then goes back to the door, unlocking it again. You push off the sink and follow him outside.

The wobble in your step is completely unfaked.

***

The rest of the meal happens in a kind of haze. You’re vaguely aware of making small talk, giving all the appropriate responses to Moriarty’s casual questions, but inside there’s just – shock.

No matter how much you’ve pushed, you never actually thought he’d go through with it. That he’d take you up on the offer. That he’d end up _fucking_ –

“Sip of water, dear?” Moriarty says solicitously, while you choke on your merengue.

It’s absurd, that’s what it is.

After dessert Moriarty falls silent, drinking his tea and idly looking at the other patrons. That’s a thing couples do, isn’t it? Simply sit in comfortable silence? And it’s a fucking relief, not having to talk, but on the other hand…

He occasionally spares a smile and look for you, and while the sweetness on the surface is one hundred percent fake, there’s an edge there of malicious amusement that makes your breath stutter every time his eyes meet yours.

Eventually – after a lifetime, after a few seconds – he stands up. “Coming up then, darling?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “Let’s.”

He takes your hand when you stand up and tugs you gently to the lifts. More than a few of the patrons look a little oddly at the open display of affection, possibly even disapproving, but that’s to be expected. If they’re remembering you, then let it be for all the wrong reasons.

He keeps hold of your hand in the lift. At this point, you don’t dare to meet his eyes, so you just keep looking down, painfully aware of his warm palm against yours, his thumb slowly stroking your knuckles.

Funny, how such an innocent touch can feel like –

The lift pings. You follow him out. There’s no one in the corridor. The thick carpet swallows all sound and it would be better if he just damn well said something because this, this tense heavy silence, is fucking _breaking_ you.

He fishes the keycard from his pocket one-handed, swipes it across the lock, then pulls you in along him. He lets go of your hand the second the door falls closed behind you, leaving you reeling. What if this was another ploy, a trick, a mind game just to see you –

He’s started undressing.

“Come on, Moran,” he says, as he pulls off his tie. “You’re hardly a virgin, are you? So why are acting like one?”

“I, er…” You shake your head, try to dislodge this weird sense of displacement. “It’s just that this usually happens differently.”

“Really?” He sheds his jacket. “How, then?”

“Just – I don’t know.” You run your hand through your hair. “I have more of a clue of what to do, for one thing. I always – I mean…”

“What do you do usually, then? Go on.” He pops his cufflinks open and smiles. “Talk me through it.”

“I, er, try to find out if someone is a bottom or a top, or if I have a lucky day and I’ve found a switch. Or I drop a hint, try to see if they’re into anything kinky. Just – trying to find out what they like.”

He hums, nods, pulls a mock-impressed face. “Very thorough.”

“Yeah, well. It works.”

His hand drops to his belt. You swallow.

“Let me make it easy for you, then,” he says softly. “Come here.”

You move closer, still cautious. It just – it doesn’t feel _real_ , any of this.

He hooks his hand behind your neck and pulls you down into a kiss. It’s a very different kiss than the faked ones.

 _Bedroom kiss_ , your brain helpfully provides.

It doesn’t help.

He lets go, hand still on your neck, and gives you a little nudge. “Knees.”

You drop to your knees, and opens his belt and the buttons on his flies and –

Yeah. Well. There it is. No turning back now you’ve seen your boss’ half-hard cock straining against his boxers.

Above you, Moriarty sighs. “Please don’t tell me I’ve got to talk you through this as well?”

“No.” You lick your lips, tentatively take his hips. He doesn’t protest. “No, I know what to do.”

“Good.”

You pull his underwear down and let his cock spring free, then lean in and close your lips over the head. Moriarty hisses and his hand, still on the back of your neck, goes a little tighter.

This, at least, is familiar. You close your eyes and try to forget for a moment that this is your boss you’re sucking off, that this is fucking _Morarty_. It doesn’t really work, but you’ve got muscle memory to go on, and in the end…

Well, in the end even Moriarty is just a man, it seems, who enjoys being deepthroated as much as the next one.

He curses as you take him deep, scrapes his nails over your neck. You pull back a little, running your tongue across the slit at the head and sliding your hand up the inside of his thigh, fingers just nudging his balls –

“Off,” he says, breathlessly, then once again with more sharpness, “ _Off_.”

You pull back, slightly dazed. “Sorry. Isn’t this…”

“You’re good,” he says, sounding vaguely impressed.

You shrug. “Lots of practice. But, if you – why did you make me stop?”

“Because I don’t want this to end too soon. Come on.” He hauls you up and pushes so you end up on your back on the bed, then straddles you.

“I’m a switch,” he says casually, as he starts unbuttoning your shirt. “I’m very much open to anything kink-related, as long as it stays away from roleplay. And as to what I like, well…” He smiles. “You’ll find out.”

“Okay, so, er…” You stare, entranced, at his fingers as they finish off the last button. He puts both his hands flat on your chest, then curls his fingers and draws his nails down, all the way from your shoulders to your hips. You groan.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he says, contemplatively.

“Really?” you gasp. “Did it live up to the expectations?”

“There was more of a writhe in my imagination, but that whine was nice too.”

“I did _not_ fucking whin- _nngh, Jesus_.”

He bends down, elbow next to your face, and attacks your neck. He’s a bitey kisser, probably leaving marks all across your throat, but hey, at least it fits the cover, right?

You laugh, breathlessly.

“What?” Moriarty says, close enough to your ear that the little puff of hot air makes you shiver.

“Just – impressive dedication to your acting. Excellent in-character improvisation.”

He freezes.

Then he pushes up and folds his hand around your throat.

It’s a loose grip, nothing seriously threatening, and even if it comes to that you could throw him off in a matter of seconds, but…

“Moran,” he says, almost affectionately. “Please be aware of the fact that my fucking you through the mattress has absolutely nothing to do with the current mission or, indeed, with anything else beyond my desire to see you reduced to a writhing begging puddle of lust.”

“Okay,” you croak.

“Good boy.” He lets go, pats your cheek, and goes back to your neck. You groan and tilt your head back, giving him better access. He chuckles, then pushes up a little and licks a long line from your collarbone all the way to your ear. You grab his shoulders and curse.

It takes a while before you can will yourself into actually doing anything beyond just lying still beneath Moriarty’s onslaught. It’s actually a surprisingly appealing thought, to just lie back and let him violate you – because _Christ_ , he’s an aggressive kisser – but it’s – it’s Moriarty, for fuck’s sake. Like hell are you going to let the chance pass to get your hands on him.

You lower your hands, put them under his shirt and run them up again. He doesn’t protest, which seems like a good sign.

“So er,” you say as you stroke his sides. “How… how do we do this?”

Moriarty pushes up a little again, fingers caressing the fiery scratches on your chest. “Well, personally I’ve been dying to fuck you since the first time I saw you bend over, but I’m open to suggestions.”

“No, that’s, er…” You lick your lips. “Good. That’s good.”

“Thought as much.”

He kisses you again. You’re fairly certain this time he actually draws blood, with how deep he’s digging your teeth into your lip, but holy buggering God you could not give less of a shit.

You push him off a little and impatiently start tugging at the buttons of his shirt. “Lube?” you ask.

“Course. All part of the cover.”

“You’re that detail-oriented?” you ask, with a quick glance up at him.

“Of course I am, don’t be an idiot,” he says irritably. “Details make or break a backstory, you really should know that by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it.” You unbutton the last button and push the shirt off. From this close it’s obvious he’s really not the athletic type, but he still feels really nice underneath your palms. Warm. Solid. And the way his eyes close as you run your hand over his back doesn’t look half bad either.

“Condoms?” you ask.

“Didn’t use one yesterday.”

You frown. “Yesterday?”

“We did spend the night together, as newly-weds.” He cracks one eye open. “Maidservants would be suspicious if there weren’t stains on the bedding. But I didn’t bother with a condom in the bin, so…”

“Oh.”

He smirks. “So unless you insist, for some reason…?”

“Nah, I’m good, I’m clean,” you say. “Had a check-up not that long ago and haven’t had sex in ages, so…”

“Ah,” he says. “That explains it.”

“What?”

“Your level of desperation.”

You scoff. “That has nothing to do with any dry spell and everything with you. _Sir_.”

He grins wide and leans down, this time kissing his way down your chest. It feels really good, but it’s also the thing where he’s slowly moving down and any time soon now he’s gonna…

You close your eyes and moan, and Moriarty’s hand finds your belt.

“Careful,” you gasp.

“Feeling fragile?” Moriarty tuts.

“No, just – just right now feels like I’m only gonna need one touch to – so, er, you should…”

He looks up at you, once again with that look of sadistic delight you’ve come to know and hate, only in these circumstances it suddenly gets a whole new level.

“I’ll be careful,” he says, eyes glittering.

“Er, thanks?” You fall back again, eyes closed, concentrating on the feeling of his fingers opening your flies, lifting your hips as he pulls your pants down, the relief as your hard cock is finally from the restraining underwear, already a little wet at the -

“Wait.”

He looks up in surprise. “Yes?”

“ _Stains_ …” you say slowly. “Did you, erm, make them yourself?”

He shrugs. “I woke up hard, so I might as well.”

“You… wait, what?” You push up onto your elbows.

“I had you pressed against me from head to toe,” Moriarty says impatiently. “What do you think, that I’m made of stone?”

“I did, actually.” You stare at him. “So, let me get this -  you wanked over our sheets just so it would look like we fucked?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

He aggressively pulls your trousers and underwear off and throws them off the bed. Then he gets up and takes off his trousers as well – and your brain shortcircuits.

You’re naked. He’s naked. You’re hard, and he’s hard, and you’re waiting for him on the bed and he’s not going to use a condom and you’re going to fucking _die_.

And he’s looking at you smirking like he knows exactly what’s going through your mind right now.

“Do you, erm, do you want me to turn over?” you ask carefully.

“No.” He gets a bottle from the bedside table and puts his knee on the bed. “I want to see your face when I have my cock inside of you.”

Your cock gives a little delighted twitch.

“Now breathe in deep,” he says, as he settles between your thighs, “because this might be a bit uncomfortable…”

You hiss through your teeth as he pushes in a lubed-up finger. It’s been much too long since you’ve last done this and you have to force yourself to relax into it, but Moriarty is taking his time.

And, true to his word, he’s looking at you rather intently. If all your blood weren’t currently trapped in your hard-on you’d probably be blushing right now.

“Can you – do you have to look like that?” you complain.

“Yes,” he says, and he works another finger in. You squeeze your eyes shut. Relax. Relax, let him do this, because if you don’t this is going to be more painful than even you can enjoy.

By the time you feel like you’ve got a little bit of control again, he’s got four fingers inside of you, slowly fucking in and out, and your cock is so hard it’s getting painful.

Moriarty follows your gaze towards your cock, and he clucks his tongue. “You did say I shouldn’t touch.”

“And since – since when do you listen to what I say?” you say, with some difficulty.

“Since we’re having sex and I don’t know you well enough to go on instinct yet.” He pulls his hand back and wipes it on the sheets.

“Glad to hear you care.”

“Of course I care,” he says, fondly. “Where would be the fun in this if I can’t get you half-mad by the time I’m done with you?”

 “Er…?” you say, a little panicky.

“Shush.” He takes your knee. “Lie back and open up.”

You lift your hips and let him put a pillow beneath your arse, then – feeling unusually vulnerable about it – open your thighs wide.

Moriarty slowly runs his hands down the inside of your thighs. “Remember what I said about banging the walls and yelling?” he says, softly.

“Yes?”

“Now would be the time.”

He gets his hand underneath your thigh and pulls, lining up, and pushes in and _fuck_. Fuckfuckfuck, you’d forgotten, and it isn’t uncomfortable, not anymore, but –

You throw your hand back and wildly flail until you’ve got hold of the headboard.

“Comfy?” Moriarty asks, eyes dancing.

“You sadistic fuck,” you choke out.

“I’ll take that as a _yes_.” And he hoists your hips up a little and pulls out again.

Like before, he takes his time, fucking you nowhere near as fast enough as you’d like at this point. Really making you _feel_ it and by god, it works. It’s been a long while since sex felt this intense.

You cant your hips up, push back into his thrusts and almost reach for your cock, only stopping at the last moment. Moriarty would be the type to keep fucking you after you’ve come, giving no shit about how you’d feel in that situation, and this whole thing is already extreme enough without taking overstimulation into account.

But, as if he read your mind, Moriarty lets go of your thigh and wraps his fingers snugly around the base of your cock. You promptly stop moving, terrified of tipping over the edge. Moriarty just keeps rocking his hips, small shallow thrusts that are making you tremble with how much you need _more_.

“How close are you?” he asks, as his hand slowly strokes upwards.

You make a choked-off noise.

“Ah,” he says, and lets go again. You can’t stop the whine – and yes, fine, it _is_ a goddamn whine – at the loss of contact but Moriarty doesn’t seem to care. He just grabs your thigh again, adjusting the angle, then adjusting it again, and he’s frowning in concentration what the hell is he –

“ _Fuck_ ,” you groan, as he’s suddenly hitting a really good spot.

“There we are,” he says smugly, but this time he’s sounding a bit breathless too. Christ, how much stamina does he have?

Because it’s – no matter how good it feels it’s torture too, because no one should be this close to coming without actually having the chance to come, and you won’t, not as long as he keeps his hands away from your cock.

“Come on,” you mutter, hand still tightly on the headboard. “Come on, _please_.”

He speeds up, pace becoming a little erratic. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head away, but he grabs your jaw and forcibly turns your head back.

“Look at me,” he hisses, and you open your eyes and he’s watching you and, _Jesus_.

And then he comes.

At least it means he closes his eyes, but it’s a spectacle nevertheless, the tendons standing out in his neck, that expression of agony all people have when they’re coming, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs and his hips slamming into your arse…

Then he slows, stops, and falls forward. You wince as he traps your cock between his chest and your stomach.

“Er…” you try, when he still doesn’t move.

He pulls out, then crawls up and flops down next to you. He’s still breathing hard, and his face is flushed.

“Do you, erm, or should I…?” you try again.

No reply.

You reach for your cock, resigned to doing the job yourself, but then his hand shots out and stops you.

His eyes are on you again.

“One touch,” he says, softly. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

You nod, wordlessly.

“Want to put that to the test?”

“...Yes?”

He puts his hand on your chest and slowly trails it down. Your stomach muscles go tense in response, your cock giving another twitch.

“It’s all you’re getting,” he adds, as his hand reaches your hip, and something like panic seizes you. Your cock has barely been touched, and what if it isn’t enough, what if he turns this in another one of his mindfuck games and just lets you –

He fists your cock. You grab hold of the sheets, twisting it between your fingers, and he slowly strokes up and no, it’s good but it’s not going to be enough and the fucking bastard is going to let you –

And then his thumb swipes over the exposed head of your cock and you come like a shot, with a hoarse yell you can’t keep in.

Moriarty pulls his hand back with a deeply smug expression. You keep your eyes on him, still shaking and twitching from the aftermath. “I don’t – ” you start, breathless, “I don’t think anyone’s ever done – done that.”

Moriarty’s smug grin grows. “Best fuck you’ve ever had?”

“Coming damn close,” you reply, eyes closed.

“Just imagine what this’ll be like once I know how you work,” and before that sentence and all its implications can really sink in, he slides out of bed.

You’re too blissed-out to care. Your arse hurts, and you’ve got that vague throbbing pain in your stomach you sometimes get when you’ve been hard for too long, and you can feel come dribbling down your crack, and none of it matters.

The bed dips and Moriarty lies down next to you.

“What did you do?” you manage to ask.

“Enabled the cameras again. So watch yourself.”

“Will.”

“All right,” he says, as he settles himself against you. “The men we’re here for are significantly – are you up to talking business or are you still too air-headed?”

You blink. “No. No, I’m – I’m good. Carry on.”

“Right.” He shifts, arm comfortably around your waist. “They’re significantly higher up the ladder than I initially suspected. And their organisation is running an operation which has conflicting interests with mine. Which leaves us two options.”

“Which are?”

“Either we disappear quietly, with our new information, never letting them know what we know.”

“Safe,” you remark, one hand on his shoulder. “But boring. Not very you. What’s option two?”

“We leave a message. They’re here under utmost secrecy, with a maximum of surveillance and security. So…”

“You want me to kill ‘em?”

“One of them. Leave the other to be the messenger.”

“That does sound more up your alley, yeah.”

He yawns. “Specifics tomorrow, then. I’m quite exhausted.”

“Mm?”

He grins, then rolls over onto his back. You turn over and he throws his arm around you, pulls you close. He closes his eyes, and his breathing goes slow.

Just like yesterday, it’s almost hypnotic, listening to it. But unlike yesterday, you don’t feel scared of it anymore. You close your eyes and snuggle a little closer. Moriarty moans a little in his sleep.

You’ve got no illusions about this. It isn’t because you’re shagging that you’re suddenly mates or, god forbid, _boyfriends_. He’s still the boss. He’s still in charge.

But right now, you don’t really mind.

***

You wake up, once again, with Jim Moriarty spooned comfortably in your arms. But this time the panic stays – for the most part – subdued.

“Morning,” you murmur against the back of his neck.

He moves, then arches back against you, making a contented little noise.

“Never thought you’d be the type to enjoy being little spoon,” you say, amused.

“I take comfort whichever way I can get. Time?”

You glance at the clock. “Eight. Do we need to get up?”

“Not yet.”

He turns in your arms and without missing a beat pulls you in for a kiss. It’s lazy, slow, and not as toothy as it was yesterday. Apparently Moriarty is mellow in the mornings.

God, you could get used to this.

He rolls on top of you and you wrap your arms around his waist. “Are you the type to start the day with a fuck,” you ask, “or should I just leave you alone until you’ve had caffeine?”

“Depends on the mood I’m in.” He bends down and draws his teeth gently over your neck. You shudder.

“Right. And, erm… Which mood are you in now?”

“Guess,” he says, just before biting down – gently, thank fuck – on your collarbone.

“I… I prefer not to. You’re the type to mislead on purpose.” You close your eyes and sigh as he continues nibbling at your throat and jaw.

“True enough,” he admits easily. “But right now I’m very much not faking. As you may feel.”

“Hm? Oh, that.” You bend your knee a little and rub your thigh against his crotch. He retaliates by closing his teeth on your earlobe.

“I’m hope you’re going to do more than just that,” he murmurs down your ear.

“Fancy a bit of turnabout, then?”

He nips at your ear again, then straightens up. “Well, why not.”

“Sit up and turn around, then.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Erm, please?” you add, suddenly very aware of all the things he is, and all the things he does to people who annoy him.

But he does sit up. “Used to being the boss in bed, are you?” he asks sardonically.

“Depends, I suppose. I’m equally happy being bossed around, honestly.”

“I’ll remember that,” he says, and your stomach gives a little flip.

It still hasn’t fully sunk in, that this isn’t just a one-time thing but apparently a future thing too, that as of now you’re not just Moriarty’s business partner but his sexual partner as well.

He turns around, so he’s got his back to you, then looks over his shoulder. “Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” he asks interestedly.

“That’s the idea, yeah. Unless you’ve got any objections?”

“Be my guest,” he says grandly, then turns back. You take hold of his hips and pull him a little higher.

It’s one of those moments where you can’t dwell, or you’ll lose your nerve. Start thinking seriously about the fact that it’s your boss, one of the most powerful men in the world, currently on his knees over you with his arse in your face, that’s –

That’s not going to work.

You spread his cheeks and dive in. Moriarty jolts at the first touch, then relaxes into it. You close your eyes and once again go on feel alone, licking and sucking and prodding and all the while noting which things make him shiver and moan. It doesn’t take long before you’ve got the hang of it. A good hard push _there_ , and a long lick _there_ , and if you just edge in the tip of your tongue he’ll –

He groans, loudly, and his fingers tighten on the sheets. You’ve had men near attacking you when you rimmed them for too long, and it’s… _interesting_ , thinking about Moriarty’s stamina right now.

“Moran,” he pants. “For fuck’s sake – ”

You hum, he shivers, and then you run his hand up his inner thigh and he jumps, almost kicking you in the face. He turns with a surprising amount of speed and crouches over you.

“You think I appreciate this?” he growls.

“Dunno, you seemed to enjoy it,” you say with an easy grin.

“Thin line, Moran.”

“Seems worth the risk.” You reach up but he pins your wrist to the mattress.

“Do we need to lay down ground rules?” he asks, something dangerous in his expression.

“I do what the hell I like until you tell me otherwise,” you say. “Works for you?”

He stares at you for a moment. His grip on your wrists shifts, two fingers pressing up against your pulse point – and, yeah, your heart is racing right now.

Adrenaline junkie, through and through.

But then he grins, wide. “Well, this will prove to be interesting.”  He grabs the lube off the bedside table and squirts a dollop in his hand.

“Want me to help out?” you ask.

“No. I want this done quickly, I don’t have time for your fumbling.”

“ _Fumbling_?” you repeat, more amused than insulted.

He reaches behind him, wincing a little when he – presumably – pushes his fingers in. “You may be experienced, Moran, but you’re – you’re not all-knowing.” He briefly closes his eyes, mouth thin.

It’s a surprisingly hot sight, actually. You shift a little.

“All right.” He opens his eyes and pulls his hand back. “Do you need…” He trails off, eyes on your crotch.

“In case you didn’t know,” you say, as he keeps eyeing you more-than-hard cock with something like surprise, “I’m really _really_ into this.”

“Apparently.” He shakes his head and lifts his hips. “Don’t come on impact. I don’t want all this effort be for nothing.”

“I’ll – I’ll try.”

He grabs your cock – you curse at the contact -  and aligns it, then, with a wince, lowers himself.

He stops when you’re barely an inch in, hands on your chest, breathing hard. You take a moment to fully process the tight grip on your cock, then ask, “Too much?”

He scoffs.

“Thought you said you’re a switch?”

“There’s a difference between what I like and what I actually do. And, like with you, it’s been a while.” He breathes out heavily, then tilts his hips and takes you deeper. And you lose all sense of consideration, because that’s, it’s…

Then he stops again. Not quite all the way but deep enough that you don’t give a fuck.

He doesn’t move, adjusting again. To be honest, you’re grateful for it. It’s one thing to have him take you like a cheap rentboy, but a whole other to see him like this, panting and flushed and trembling with how much he wants this.

But it drags on.

“Er… are you going to _do_ anything?”

He cracks on eye open and glares at you. Your insides give a happy little twist, and _Christ_ , you should probably not get off on him threatening you as much as you do.

Maybe if the fucker didn’t look so hot while doing it.

“Or not,” you say quickly. “Whatever you want.”

He digs his knee into the mattress and experimentally rocks his hips a few times, which alone is already enough to make you writhe. He bounces once, changes position again, then seems to find something that works for him.

And then it gets a bit – much. He sets the pace brutally fast, slamming his arse down again and again and yeah, no, he’s definitely not a virgin, he very fucking sure knows how to do this and _Christ –_

You grabs his hips in an attempt to regain some control but he seizes your wrists, trapping them together in one hand and leaning heavily onto your chest, slowing down a little but the long quick drag of his arse around your cock is just too much to –

You throw your head back as you come – too quickly, embarrassingly so, but it’s only a background thought and most of your mind is more occupied with the sheer fucking pleasure of it, and his fingers squeezing your wrists far beyond the point of pain and his weight across your hips and only fucking _idiots_ think bottoms are never the ones in control.

You fall back. Moriarty lets go off your wrists, then starts rocking again, which right now doesn’t exactly feel comfortable.

“Ow, Jesus, wait – ” You stop him moving and he makes a frustrated noise. “Yeah, shush, I got this…” You grab his cock and start jerking him off, roughly. He digs his nails in your chest, back arching. “Should I – ”

“Keep fucking doing that,” he pants. “Don’t – lose – yesss, god, there – ”

You can’t help the wide grin as you watch his face contort. Moriarty’s come-face, never in a million years did you ever even dream you’d see that.

He comes all across your stomach and chest, nails dug deep into your pecs. The feeling of him clenching down convulsively on your softening cock is one you could do without, but he looks so deeply ecstatic right now it would feel like a shame to pull him off.

Then he stops, still panting. He blinks rapidly, as if he’s disoriented, lifts his hips with a wince and rolls off you, landing flat on his back.

“Oof.” He laughs a little. “Well.”

“I take it back.”

“Hm?” He rolls his head, watches you.

“You’re definitely a switch.”

He laughs again. “And you definitely have a submissive streak.”

“Thought that was obvious, actually.”

He sits up and stretches. “Looking forward to seeing how far that goes,” he says lazily.

And right on cue, your insides give another happy little twist.

“All right.” Moriarty gives you a small pat on your chest. “Shower, let’s get cleaned up. And then we talk strategy.”

***

You order room service for breakfast and eat it wearing bathrobes, sitting at the table near the window. It’s strangely domestic, and for the first time since you set foot in this place you actually feel a bit connected to your cover.

“So how do we do this?” you ask while Moriarty butters his toast.

“Tonight,” he says. “When it’s dark enough. I’ve installed an exploit in the electricity system.”

You reach for the coffee. “I’ve got no idea what that means.”

“It _means_ that I’ve got control of the lighting in the whole damn building,” he says, with an eye-roll. “So we can work under the cover of darkness.”

“Oh, so that’s what you were doing when you were out.”

“Of course it was. Not everyone has the leisure time to go take a swim, Moran.”

“I took a swim for nefarious purposes,” you point out. “Not just relaxation.”

“That scotch was for nefarious purposes too?”

“Blending in,” you say smoothly. “Can’t have them suspicious, can I?”

“You wandering around on your own like that may already have done some damage.” He gives you a teasing look. “We’ll have to make sure to look extra couply today.”

“Oh dear, what a burden.” You take a sip of coffee. “So, the lights go off, I take advantage of the confusion to creep up on our guy – his room?”

“No, I’ll get him out of there.” He taps his fingers on the table. “Somehow. I’ve bluejacked his phone, maybe that can work, send him a message to make him come to the bar or something.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s very public.”

“That, Moran, is rather the _point_.” He looks outside, with a faintly abstracted expression. “No point in grandstanding if you’re going to half-arse it.”

“Going in full-arsed, got it.”

He glances at you, lips quirked up in a suppressed smile, then turns back to the window.

You empty your cup and put it down with a clink. “So,” you say. “Want to go outside, darling spouse?”

***

 _Couply activities_ , it turns out, consist mainly of lazing around by the outdoor pool holding hands, interspersed with the occasional bit of heavy petting.

If you hadn’t snapped yesterday, it would definitely have happened now. No way could you have been that close to Moriarty wearing nothing but swimming trunks for that long while still playing platonic. It just – isn’t possible.

And luckily, you don’t have to be anymore.

About an hour after lunch Moriarty drags you back to the bedroom to have loud ecstatic sex with you. Judging by the maid’s look when you stagger out again some two hours later, it got noticed well enough to help the cover along.

Honeymoon period, and all that.

It’s still a bit fake, of course, a bit awkward. The roles aren’t perfect; you doubt Moriarty would ever be that sweet and considerate if he wasn’t forced to be, and all the petnames don’t fall easily off your lips either. But the rest of it, the constant touching and the nearness and, of course, the sex, that’s –

Well. You can live with that.

***

You lean next to the window and look out. The sun has gone down. Some new cars have arrived, but Moriarty ran the plates and they all check out. No colleagues for your two marks, nor any investigators to complicate things. Everything according to plan so far.

“Dark enough for you?” you ask.

“Almost. Plan’s clear?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, then.”

You roll your eyes and sit down in a chair. “Lights go off. People will look outside and roam around but none of them will go to the hallway because they aren’t fucking suicidal enough to go wandering around blind near a twenty-story drop.”

“Hopefully.”

“Either way, there will be enough confusion for me to run around without looking suspicious, and the darkness will make sure I won’t be recognised.”

“Hopefully,” Moriarty says again.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. So, I’m outside, with about half of the other guests, I’d reckon. I go the main hallway, where our guy will be trying to phone his bosses – hopefully, I suppose?”

“No, definitely,” Moriarty says. “I’m not switching off the lights until I can see our friend on the CCTV, right where he’s supposed to be.”

“’Kay. So I go out, kill him, then come back and mingle with the panicky guests. You switch the lights back on, someone screams because of the body they’ve just found, and we act all scandalised and shocked and leave first thing tomorrow, along with most of the other guests. Yeah?”

“Put very simply, but yes. Any questions left?”

“No guns,” you say, thoughtfully.

“So?” He frowns. “You’re ex-SAS. You can kill people with floss tape.”

“I can, yeah, but that gets messy.”

“We can’t risk you being caught with a murder weapon,” he says. “And I have every faith in your abilities to dispose of one man. All right, it's dark enough. Earpiece?”

You take the earpiece and put it in, press a button to test. “Seems to work.”

“Good. Ready?”

“Hold on.” You take off your tie and jacket, flex your arms to test the reach of the shirt. “Yeah, go on.”

He switches off the lights in the room, then takes his laptop to the furthest corner. You stare into the darkness, willing your eyes to adjust. At first there’s just a mass of undefinable darkness, nothing there but the thin stripe of light coming from underneath the front door. Then forms start taking shape, black dissolving into different shades of grey.

After a minute or so, Moriarty asks, “Good?”

“Yes.”

“Wait – all right, go.”

You open the door and look outside. The lights have gone out all across the hallway.

“Act quickly,” Moriarty says, and then you’re outside.

It’s odd. You can see people standing in doorways, yelling at each other, but they obviously don’t see you. It makes you feel like a ghost.

Is this how Moriarty feels all the time?

You shake off the thought and creep down the corridor. The guy is standing in the centre circular hallway, like Moriarty said. But instead of the angry confusion you were expecting, he’s silent. Poised.

And as you reach the end of the corridor, he turns and you hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Shit.

You rub your eyes, thinking fast, then touch your ear piece. “Hear me?” you whisper.

“Yes,” Moriarty says. “What’s going on?”

“Give me a short flash of light. Count up to it.”

“Got it,” Moriarty says calmly. There’s a clatter of keys, then his voice again. “Three, two, one – ”

And the lights flash back on. But by then you’ve got your eyes squeezed shut. You wait until the flash has gone down, then open again.

The guy is staggering, blind. Only a few seconds before he regains his night vision but it’s enough. You step in, grab his wrist and twist to make him drop the gun. He struggles but he’s still too blind, too _surprised_ to fight properly.

“Who the hell – “ he hisses, and then you’ve got him by the throat, pushed against the wall.

He claws at your hand, then kicks out hard at your stomach and you double over in pain, dropping him. He scrabbles up and tries to lunge for the gun, but you stamp down on his hand before he can reach it. The bones break with an audible snap and the guy rolls onto his side, cradling his wrist to his chest, groaning. You grab his shirt and yank him up, then slam him against the balustrade.

Tragically easy, really. A quick stumble in the dark … Accidents happen.

You push him backwards, over the banister, avoiding his kicks and fruitless struggling…

Then drop him.

There’s a yell, quite long, but before you can hear the thud of the landing you’re already back down the hallway. The other guests are walking around mostly blind, and you can hear someone ask _did you hear a scream_? but no one takes any notice of you.

Moriarty opens before you can even knock. “Worked?”

“Yes. Cameras still off?”

“For the moment.”

You take the gun from your pocket. “Bastard was packing.”

He stares at the gun for a moment, then turns away and curses. You sit down on the bed and rub your side. A moment later the lights turn back on.

“Are you all right?” Moriarty asks.

“Bastard got a kick in.” You prod your ribcage. “Doubt it’s anything serious, but you’ll have to be careful tonight.”

“Tonight?”

You grin at him. He smirks back.

And outside, people start screaming.

***

The next morning there’s a queue at the reception desk. Only one haggard-looking receptionist is on duty, and the guests are trying to push past each other to be the first to leave. The situation isn’t helped either by a few hapless police officers trying to stop anyone from leaving without giving their names and addresses.

You watch ‘em from a distance, leaning comfortably against the counter, side to side with Moriarty. “Problem?” you ask, with a nod at the coppers.

“No,” he says, sounding relaxed and well-rested. “Our covers are watertight. I already gave 'em our names. ”

“Good.”

“Form an orderly queue, please!” the receptionist yells at the guests. There must be plenty of Brits among the guests, because they obey almost without question. You spot exactly one guest trying to sneak ahead, and all it takes is one well-placed foot to make him stumble and fall to the ground.

“Oh, so sorry,” Moriarty say, solicitously extending a hand. “Can I help – ”

The guy snarls at him and struggles upright, then plods off to the back of the queue. There’s a snigger from behind and you turn, then smile.

The French bisexuals are waiting next in line, the taller one’s hand on the short one’s back. They haven’t noticed you and you trail your eye over them in appreciation. They really do look quite –

A sharp pinch in your side almost makes you yelp. You turn.

Moriarty raises his eyebrow at you. “No wandering eyes.”

“Possessive type, are you?”

“A bit,” he says, and his hand drifts down to the arse, still smarting from the night before. “You may have noticed.”

“I may have.” You rub at the large love bite on your throat. One of the French girls catches it and gives you a very amused smile. You wink at her.

The queue moves ahead, only one family ahead of you.

“You know, I thought you were straight when I first met you,” Moriarty said thoughtfully.

You laugh, surprised. “Yeah, well, you’re not the first one, actually. How long did that impression last?”

“About five minutes. Then I caught you ogling my arse.”

“Well,” you say solemnly, “it is a very good arse.”

Which earns you a slap on your own arse. Another distinctly French snigger floats up behind you.

The family moves on and the receptionist turns to you, a very weak imitation of her original smile plastered on her face. “I presume you want to check out early?” she says. “I should inform you that the refund process is – ”

“No problem,” Moriarty says easily. “We’re not looking for a refund. Just charge us the full amount.”

“Oh. Er…” She blinks. “Excellent. Which room number, please?”

Moriarty hands over the keycard. “Honeymoon suite.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.” Her smile turns a bit more genuine. “Can I just have your card, please?”

Moriarty takes a credit card out of his wallet and slides it over. The receptionist starts typing and Moriarty slings his arm around your waist. His thumb slowly strokes the bottom of your ribcage. You put your hand on his lower back, just above his arse, fingers spread wide. He makes a very small contented noise.

“There we go. I hope you enjoyed - ” She grimaces. “Sorry, force of habit. I hope what happened won’t spoil your memories of your stay here.”

“Oh, trust me,” you say. “It won’t. Bye, then.”

“Goodbye.” She gives you another smile, then turns to the French girls. Moriarty walks off to the front door and you move to follow him, then look over your shoulder.

The colleague of the man you killed is standing by the lifts. He looks pale, worried, and one hand is resting lightly on his side, only a few inches below where – you’re willing to bet – he’s keeping his gun.

He’s tracking the guests, eyes sliding over each in assessment. You can see him linger on the French girls, and his hand goes a little higher when he spots two tall, athletic men in non-descript dark suits.

Then his eyes meet yours.

For a moment you’re _certain_ that you’ve been had, that he’s seconds away from pulling his gun right here right now, and you’ve got nothing to defend yourself, nothing to use for cover, nothing to –

“Seb?”

Moriarty pops up at your side, tucking his hand in the crook of your elbow. The guy’s eyes narrow in disgust and he turns away, very obviously dismissing you as unimportant.

“Idiot,” Moriarty says softly. He tugs at your elbow. “Come on, let’s not tempt fate.”

You let him lead you outside, where the car is already waiting, bags in the boot - five-star service does have some perks, even if you pity the boys who had to lug around Moriarty’s luggage, filled as it is with laptops and various other electronical devices.

One of the bellhops opens the door and you get in, start the engine. Moriarty slides in the seat next to you. You give the hotel one last look, curling your lip in distaste now you can see it in all its daylight-lit glory. Disgusting, yes, but you can't help but feel a certain fondness for it too. Happy associations and all that.

And then you’re off, the building disappearing in the rear view mirror, and the eternal surveillance finally no longer an issue to take into consideration.

Moriarty doesn’t say anything. He’s leaning his head against the window, a faint smile on his lips.

“So, er…” you say hesitantly. “Now the cover’s done…”

“You can hand back the ring, yes.”

“Oh.” You rub your thumb over the ring. Funny, you almost forgot you were wearing that one. “Yeah. That wasn’t what I meant, actually.”

“The sex?” He gives you a hooded look. “Do you honestly need me to remind you of what I said?”

“Er, no, thanks, I remember.” A bit too well, actually. “But you are known to be changeable. Sir.”

“Not in this case.” He slips the ring off and studies it for a moment, then puts it back in his pocket. “We are still going to fuck. Often. Repeatedly. Daily, even, if your libido can handle that.”

You swallow. “I’ll, er, give it a damn good try.”

“Good. Ah, and by the way?”

You look aside. He slides his sunglasses on and turns to face you, grinning his devil’s grin, wide and evil and suggestive in a whole new way.

“From now on, it’s _Jim_.”

 


End file.
